


Winter

by ziggy



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 16:15:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19135606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziggy/pseuds/ziggy
Summary: Maedhros stands alone on the battlements of Himring in the cold winter, and receives a gift.





	Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NelyafinweFeanorion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NelyafinweFeanorion/gifts).



He stood on the icy battlements of Himring and stared North where the twin peaks for Thangorodrim was wreathed in cloud and thick fog and smoke. He didn’t often think about the time he spent upon the mountain- it was too bleak and he had despaired. But he did think about his rescuer. Often.

But it made him cold.

Because he yearned for Fingon’s warmth, his vibrancy and brilliance, his laugh, his humour his…

Maedhros shook himself laughing slightly. As much as he ever laughed. He was a fool. 

Fingon, beloved Fingon, High King Fingon now, could not come here. Not now in the midst of winter with a kingdom to run, with Turgon to cajole from his hidden kingdom, with Artanis (who was calling herself Galadriel now, he smirked slightly) to hold at arm’s length, Orodreth to entertain…and so on. No. He knew that Fingon could not come to cold Himring. Much as he wished it. Much as he dreamed that a rider on a black horse would come charging through the trees, silver-blue banner streaming behind him and those silly gold braids…

He recognised his own disappointment was rooted in the arrival of a rider from the West. From Barad Eithel. But oh, how he had hoped it was Fingon, he knew that it was Narmófinion, his own equerry, who had returned and Maedhros knew he would be on his way up these stone steps as soon as he had rubbed down his horse and settled her in the well built stables of Himring. Maedhros envied him for he had been a week in Barad Eithel, could look his fill upon Fingon, could drink his laugh, his smile, the glory of him. But there was a serious business too and he was nervous with hope that they could broker this alliance, that Fingon could succeed with Turgon.

The trees were black against the snow, holly and pine. It was bitterly cold outside and there was ice skittering over the stones in the halls where the fires were not lit. And those who did not labour sat huddled in great coats and cloaks , sinking into them to stay warm.  
But the silvan elves who had taken shelter in Himring, a few of them, insisted on bringing boughs and branches inside and stringing silver braid and glass balls on them. 

Fingon would love it, he thought, and turned from the bleak beauty of the snow covered hills and forests, towards the door that opened onto this particular battlement. He pushed the heavy oak door open and went back inside into the warmth of his study, where a fire crackled and burned. There was wine, warmed and spiced by Heirendir, standing in a silver pitcher on the hearth and a fine goblet, one of the remaining two brought from Aman. In his comfortable chair, drawn up close by the fire was a cat. Nármöfinion’s cat, Piuacca, who seemed to adopt him during her master’s absences, curled up so the only way he could sit down was to move her. And Maedhros never moved anyone from comfort, having too long had none of his own.

He poured a cup of warm wine. Trying to quench the anxiety and churn in his belly; were they overreaching themselves this time? Was it too soon?

When the snows had melted, he would lead his men out and join Fingon and their Alliance to launch an attack upon Angband that would finally free Middle Earth, destroy Morgoth and he could retrieve the Silmarils and retire to be nearer Fingon. Knowing they would have to be discrete. Knowing Fingon had a reputation to maintain. As did he.

But he dreamed fondly that Himring could become just another fortress, Barad Eithel could be the centre, the capital of a new country. Fingon would be King and Maedhros -well, he could be just another advisor. He smiled wryly.

Footsteps sounded sharply on the stone turreted staircase within and he half turned, knowing it was Nármo. He smiled in anticipation, missed his acerbic wit, his soft affection and tender care of Maedhros himself as if Nármo thought he might break when he felt full of fire and sap.

‘My lord!’

Maedhros smiled widely. ‘So you are home young rascal! I thought maybe some pretty maid had caught your eye and kept you for a while.’

‘Well there were one or two who tried but I missed the cheery warmth of Himring, the beautiful views of Thangorodrim and the fresh sulphurous air that is carried on the east wind.’ Nármo’s almost amber eyes, so unusual and strange, gleamed with humour. ‘Barad Eithel is positively morose compared with the Yule spirit here,’ he said bitingly.

‘I have something for you, my lord. ‘Nármo grinned, as if eh could barely contain himself. He pulled from behind him, a thick parcel wrapped most oddly in coloured parer and a silver ribbon.

Maedhros raised one eyebrow over his good eye, the one without the puckered scar. ‘What in all of Arda is that…ribbon?’

‘It is the latest thing in Barad Eithel. They have coloured paper and ribbon, lord, to wrap up gifts.’

‘Oh? It is a gift?’

‘From the king.’

‘Oh.’

‘Here…he bid me say nothing but make sure you wore it.’

MAedhros’ hand was still over the ribbons, catching them between his fingers like they were the fingers of his own beloved. ‘Did the king wrap this himself?’

‘Yes.’

He lingered, thinking how Fingon’s own hands had tied, smoothed, pushed and pulled so they were in position.

Finally he gently pulled one end, like it was Fingon’s gold braid, pulling it off until it released the black cascade of smooth, night silk hair and Maedhros could run his hands through it, feeling the coolness and silk. The ribbon came free and the gaudy paper fell open. He pushed his hand between the paper folds like he would put his hand between the folds of silk of Fingon's shirt, felt beneath,

His fingers touched a softness that could only be fur. And silk below.

He shook out the cloak of black fur and lined with velvet and silk, threw it round his shoulders. He felt like Fingon stood behind him, slid his arms round Maedhros’ shoulders and curled about him. Warmth enveloped him. Softness caressed him. Love in the gift that would wrap around him as he stood on the cold battlements of Himring staring North. In the cloak of black fur he felt he was not standing up there quite alone.

 

0o0o0


End file.
